


never dog it

by templemarker



Category: Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Recovery sucks," Amanda bit out over the phone, and her brother laughed, that weird bear chuckle he let out like he was coughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never dog it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_spruce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/gifts).



> Happy holidays, blue_spruce! I leapt on this prompt like my dog on peanuts (which is a lot of leaping). I hope you enjoy!
> 
> For readers from the future, this fic is set contemporaneously to December 2015. Amanda Kessel developed a concussion during Team USA's competition play in the 2014 Sochi Olympics and has not played a game since. 
> 
> Totally relevant question: are there still marshmallows in the future? Very important, please reply.

_The highest compliment that you can pay me is to say that I work hard every day, that I never dog it._   
**\--Wayne Gretzky**

-}{-

"Recovery sucks," Amanda bit out over the phone, and her brother laughed, that weird bear chuckle he let out like he was coughing. 

"I don't know if that really answers the question 'how are you,'" he said. 

"You know what I mean," she said, mask over her eyes, curled up on the couch with the curtains closed. She was having one of those headaches that had more to do with her eyes then her brain, a deafening pounding ache over her left eyebrow and the bridge of her nose. She was grateful she couldn't smell anything. Some soft classical music was playing from the kitchen, but it didn't make things worse, so she hadn't complained. 

Phil sighed, and there was a shared knowledge in the sound. "Yeah," he said. Amanda ached for a minute; now, with this stupid post-concussion syndrome, she started to really understand what Phil had gone through, how he talked about his treatments and therapies and remission. She hated that, too, that she finally got it, that he'd had to go through something and, like everything else, she'd followed him there. 

But one of the nicer things about sharing hockey with her brother was that she knew he could understand nearly everything she dealt with. And the parts he didn't, well, he was there for her and supported her, which was all that mattered. 

"Have you gone out?" he asked. 

"That's a funny question coming from you," she pointed out, and she could feel the eye roll from halfway across the country. 

"I'm serious. You--you need that, you need people. You're going to go even crazier if you just hide at home with only Mom for company," Phil said, practical as always if a little too much big-brother condescension for her preference. 

"I go out," she said defensively. "I do things."

"Other than rehab or Starbucks?" he asked. 

"I'm not allowed to have coffee anymore," she muttered.

"So that's a no," he said. Amanda sighed, an echo of Phil's. 

"Yeah, no," she said. "I just--all my friends are hockey players, P. All _your_ friends are hockey players. It's not like I can drive down to Twin Cities, or go to a game, either. I can't even look at my phone for longer than a couple of minutes. And--" She cut herself off, working to control the shuddering breath that wanted to rattle its way out of her chest. 

"It's okay, 'Manda," Phil said, his voice a quiet comfort. 

"And I don't know when it's going to take me out," she said, after a minute of breathing, her brother's inhale and exhale bringing hers in sync. "I don't even know _what_ could take me out, it's been so many things."

"I know," Phil said, and of course he did. 

They sat in silence for a minute, familiar and remembered like Phil was sitting with her on the couch, under the afghan their grandmother had crocheted. 

"I gotta go," Phil said lowly; it was a game night, and shit was crazy enough down in Pittsburgh beyond first-season settling. She sighed, but let him go. 

"I love you, big bear," she said. 

"I love you, little bear," he said back. "Give Blake a call, all right? He doesn't want to bug you but I know he's worried."

She agreed, and they disconnected. Amanda slumped down on the couch, and she reached until she could feel the coffee table and dropped her phone, bringing the blanket around her shoulders and pushing her face into the worn, soft nap of the couch, as if it could absorb the throb of her head and take it away. 

-}{-

"Surprise!" they yell-whispered, and Amanda's eyes widened. 

"Holy fuck," she said. 

Hilary and Meghan grinned at her. They looked great--happy and healthy and hockey-ready, everything Amanda was trying not to be envious of and mostly failing. 

"Your brother," Hilary said, pushing forward slightly so that Amanda would let them in, "is a huge mother hen. Huge. I had no idea he'd kept my number from Sochi, but he called me last week and said you needed company."

"And maybe a shower," Meghan said, laughing as she gently reached for Amanda's hair, thick from being in a loose, unwashed bun for a few days. She let it down and ran fingers through it, careful not to touch Amanda's scalp. Amanda tried not to shiver at the touch. 

"I am totally clean," she argued, knowing that the pizza sauce stain on her old IIHF hockey pants suggested otherwise. 

"And you are not alone!" Hilary said, aggressively cheerful in that take-no-prisoners-or-bullshit tone that meant she was going to be in charge of things going forward. At some point everyone learned just to go with it. There was generally (but not always) less shouting if they did. 

"Nope," Meghan echoed, carefully tugging Amanda closer until they were half-hugging, half leaning on each other. Meghan smelled like that deodorant she liked and summer sweat, so familiar. Amanda hadn't even realized she'd missed it, missed this. Missed them. 

"We are your relief line!" Meghan said, nudging Amanda to lead them towards the living room. "Hil and I both had a break coming up, and we've only gotten a handful of texts from you and that photo you posted to Instagram--which does prove you can shower!--so once we from P-Kessel we booked it out here. You get a whole weekend of Olympic besties."

"You're a lucky girl," Hilary said, flopping to one end of the couch, graciously not making a face as she moved the box of tissues and three empty Gatorade bottles from the cushion. 

"Woman," Amanda automatically corrected, and they all laughed. 

"If I can play like a girl, I can mock like a girl," Hilary said for what was easily the eighty-millionth time, but she tugged Amanda's feet into her lap anyway and started rubbing. Though plenty of practice, she knew exactly where to dig in at the arch of Amanda's foot, and Amanda immediately forgave her for any and everything. 

A few hours later, they had caught up, they had pizza for dinner, and Amanda had sat through two movies. She'd had to close her eyes at times through both of them, and Meghan had tucked her close so that she could cuddle her head into Meghan's lap--making it dark enough for her, but so that she could still hear everything. Hilary had moved over, so she could rest her head on Meghan's shoulder and keep a warm hand on Amanda's ankle. 

When _Spy_ had finished, Amanda turned her head out of Meghan's hoodie and looked at the ceiling. "You know I hate it when I have to say these words," she said. "But Phil was right. I'm so glad you're here. Thanks for coming."

When she angled her head back down, she could catch both Meghan and Hilary smiling back at her. Hilary even had a shine to her eyes, and Amanda blinked and looked away. She had already cried so much this year--through the injury, getting benched, not getting cleared to play and finally withdrawing from U of M with no way to play for the Gophers again--stupid redshirts, stupid NCAA. And no degree either, which already kind of stung as a 24-year-old sophomore, even if the Olympics was the best reason ever for a leave of absence. 

Amanda didn't want to cry anymore. She didn't want to isolate herself, either, though it was kind of inevitable what with being at home instead of at school or following Hilary and Meghan to the NWHL. 

And didn't that just tie it all up perfectly: the US finally gets a professional hockey team, women finally get really _paid_ to be pro players, making their own Show, and she couldn't look at her TV without getting a headache. 

But screw that. She was done crying. She was done hiding. She would get through this, and she would do something. Hopefully hockey. If not...that wasn't something to think about today. 

"Thanks," she said again, trying to put all the meaning she could into the words, and she wasn't surprised when she was hauled up and squished tightly between Meghan and Hilary in a fierce hug. 

"We wouldn't be anywhere else," Meghan mumbled into the crush of fabric between all three of them. 

"You're our girl, Amanda," Hilary said. "We're always here for you."

Amanda let herself sag into their arms, and take the comfort and love that was offered. She hated it when Phil was right, even when Phil was wrong about everything else. 

-}{-

She was the first one out there on the fresh ice, Zamboni marks lightly crusting in the chill air, to disappear in moments once the sheet was flooded with players. 

Heo Ye-Jun, who was the main janitor of the facility while the Olympics were going on, had agreed to let Amanda in an hour before morning practice; he'd been aware of Amanda's story, which had turned into one of those pre-Olympic touchy-feely Lifetime documentaries in all the press push of Winter Games PR mania. The sympathy and support had worked in her favor, though, and Ye-Jun led her to the bench, leaving her to it with a quiet, "Good luck," and a reminder that people started arriving in about 45 minutes. 

That was all she needed, though. It wasn't that she wanted to get to learn the rink or anything--there had already been a meet-and-greet with all the hockey teams, male and female, which included the option to skate around and chat. She just wanted a minute, a minute to herself to just _be here_. 

Three difficult years, waiting desperately for her symptoms to abate, to get cleared. Deciding what to do had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. Her family were terrified for her, going back out into contact play. Dr. Carrick had been neutral about it--he knew what his athlete patients were dealing with, when they were facing the potential of a future concussion versus their jobs and dreams. He'd informed them that she was fit to play, cleared for contact, but hadn't roundly endorsed returning to hockey. He'd pointed out the risk of hard contact in hockey versus soccer or martial arts. But he'd also talked about the other hockey players he'd treated, without saying their names. 

Josie Pucci had retired from Harvard. Sid was playing in the Show. 

In the end, no one was really surprised that she decided to play. It hadn't been a straightforward decision, but it was the only one she could make. Amanda didn't compare herself to her brothers, her teammates, or her idols. The first time she skated--not playing, no contact, just a spin at the local rink--she'd pushed off, cold air making her flush, and when she hit the other end of the boards she dropped her head to the glass and choked out a sob. Kind of embarrassing, with the whole Kessel clan there, but she'd sucked it back in, and said "Thank you" to god, the ice, or Gretzky, whoever was listening. 

She had the same feeling here in Pyeongchang, the air and ice conditioners thrumming endlessly in the background, nothing but the _whisking_ of her skate blades on fresh ice. Amanda skated a few rounds, ran a suicide between the blue line and the goal line, and had to toss her seriously ugly Team USA puffy onto the bench when her blood got warm enough. She spun out at the face-off spot in the far corner, kicking up a spray of ice, and shouted "Toe-pick!" in the empty area, laughing as it echoed back. 

When the clock noted it was about ten to six, she started to cool down a little bit, lazily rolling from one end of the boards to the other, noting some sight markers around the area, memorizing the smell of the place, ice and air filters and a little bit of fryer oil that always floated in from concessions. When it got close to time, she skated up to the boards and hopped up on the bench to pull off her skates and shove her gross, sweaty feet into her ancient Adidas sliders to head to the locker room and a quick shower before dressing and skating out again for practice. She could feel the smile on her face, big and wide like every other smile she'd involuntarily made on every sheet of ice she'd skated on since the all-clear. 

"2018, baby," she muttered, hot breath puffing out before here. "It's gonna be gold."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Amanda Kessel is a beast. [Check](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcnzfWbkWlY) [out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blZazme-p9Y) [her](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=me1N9oz4g2M) [game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCfv2U-G53M). (IIHF Team USA #28; U of Minnesota Golden Gophers #8; Gophers #8; Olympics Team USA #28 Spotlight.)
> 
> 2\. Amanda withdrew from her NCAA Division I college team in the summer of 2015. She played three seasons, in which the Gophers made it to the Frozen Four each year. Amanda has taken the maximum number of [redshirt seasons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Redshirt_\(college_sports\)%22) for her full college term (essentially meaning that she has taken all the opportunities for practicing with the team but not dressing for games in one season over a potential five-year academic period; like absolutely everything in the NCAA, it makes very little sense and is not frequently applied outside of medical circumstances). But she's still at uni, which is awesome. She occasionally posts about her recovery experience at her [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/amandakessel8/).
> 
> 3\. She is also busy, it seems, with developing [clothing line](https://twitter.com/amandakessel8/status/629727763700838400). Girl has _plans._.
> 
> 4\. This season, Hilary Knight left the Canadian's Women Hockey League (CWHL) on the Boston Blades to join the National Women's Hockey League (NWHL) and joined [Boston Pride](http://nwhl.co/hilary-knight-signs-with-the-boston-pride/). Meghan Duggan also [left the Blades](http://nwhl.co/team-usa-captain-duggan-joins-buffalo/) to join the NWHL's Buffalo Beauts. Meghan is also coaching staff for the [Clarkson Golden Knights](http://www.clarksonathletics.com/index.aspx?path=whock) in upstate New York, an NCAA Division I team. These women are amazing. 
> 
> 5\. Just a note--the CWHL has not paid its players since its inception in 2007 despite being a pro league. The National Women's Hockey League (whose precursor by the same name ran from 1999-2007) incorporated in 2015 and is the first professional women's hockey league to pay their players a salary. The CWHL has since announced that their goal is to pay their players by the start of the 2017-18 season. 
> 
> 6\. In case you missed it, the NHL announced a few days ago that they would host a Women's Winter Classic on 12/31/15 in advance of their annual (men's) Winter Classic, presumably since the ice was already made and someone in PR decided not to be an asshole and pitch the idea. The CWHL and NWHL commissioners worked together to make it happen. It was incredibly last minute, it was not televised, and Denna Laing, a "practice player" with the NWHL's Boston Pride, managed to break her leg shortly before the game ended on a slushy piece of ice the NHL's Canadiens and Bruins players had complained about that morning during their practice. There are no clips online because the game wasn't filmed. Neither Meghan nor Hilary could play despite being on the Boston Pride roster because of a previously schedule Team USA training camp; it was indicated that they could lose their team slot if they didn't attend (such bullshit). This has nothing to do with the story! I'm just frustrated while at the same time delighted, and chose to share it with you, reader.
> 
> 7\. Let's end on something happy: 
> 
>  


End file.
